When I started this journal I had no idea anyone would read these pages. At the time I had a great fear of finishing. Starting this site was my way of getting something done. I pledged to post something every Sunday and I have. Along the way I became a writer...
Year Six -- Week One -- June 1, 2003
Five years ago I left the work world and started writing full-time. To date, I’ve published nothing. As I enter my sixth year, all I’ve got to show for this effort is hundreds of rejection letters. And yet the resolve does not waver. I’ve just set up this Web-site and will post this weekly journal to chronicle the ups and downs of my writing life. The intent is not to exhibit polished prose, but to simply capture the weekly ebb and flow of the life of someone trying to establish themselves as a writer.
Last week I attended my Harvard Business School fifteen-year reunion. Yes, I was concerned about having to create a sound bite summing up my last five years, especially since what I was doing was so off the beaten track. Basically I said, I’d spent the last five years unlearning all the business school jargon. I’d attended workshops with authors like Roxanna Robinson, Amy Bloom, and Chris Offutt. I’d also spent time with some hot Nashville Songwriters and gone on retreats with people like Rosanne Cash and Jimmie Dale Gilmore. I’d just finished another draft of a novel that a top-notch editor was reviewing and several magazines had shown interest in my short story/companion song concept. It seemed to go down well.
A Venture Capitalist, who I wasn’t that close with, sent me an email when I got home (for those that don’t know a venture capitalist raises money and invests in companies – most VC folks work long hours and make big bucks) – he wrote –
You are pursuing a course I plan to pursue at some point. I have a story written in my mind (even with certain songs for specific scenes) that I hope to turn into a book and possibly even a movie someday.
Whether he does or doesn’t write this book doesn’t matter. For me what was significant was that he was interested in taking the leap. It was surprising. I wonder how many closet writers are in the class? But does he realize how much work writing really is? I don’t know. But I encouraged him and gave him a couple of books to read – which ones? The Artist’s Way, by Julia Cameron, and Annie Lamott’s Bird by Bird.
So Week One of Year Six has been about re-energizing my resolve. Hence this on-line journal. Next week I hope to tackle two significant milestones. The editor who has my novel is due back with comments. Also the Squaw Valley Writers Community will announce who got in for the summer conference. It’s one of the few writer events that admit solely on a writing sample. Last year I didn’t get in. Hopefully the hard work I put in through the year has paid off. If I get rejected, well, to be honest, I don’t want to think about that, it’s too depressing.
Year Six -- Week 2 -- June 10, 2003
I got a lot of positive response on the web journal, so here goes number two. The big news of the week has to be the feedback on my novel – The Music Addict. It’s thumbs up. What a relief. I’ve wrestled with this story for five years. It’s undergone countless rewrites. Maybe five percent of the first draft has made the current version.
Not only have I spent a huge amount of time writing this story, but I’ve also spent a ton of time marketing it. Basically, I cold called agents via a query letter, but I also used a few connections from my record biz days. I probably contacted over fifty agents. I got several interested, all wanted to see a rewrite.
In October of ‘02 I sent it back to one of the big agencies – two weeks later, the agent there said he liked my writing but didn’t care for the story. What could I say? It was a miracle to even breakthrough to someone at that agency. I thanked him, then forwarded the manuscript to the next agent on the list -- another NY firm, but not quite so big. He took it right away and read it quickly, unfortunately, he also passed. When I phoned to discuss what the issues were, he didn’t return my calls. Not a good sign, folks. I was in shock. This agent had read several of my short stories and had listened to some of my songs. He’d been very encouraging, and now, nothing.
I spent a drunken weekend feeling sorry for myself. But eventually, I did get out of bed. I took a couple of aspirin, then called this editor friend who’d been giving me some assistance for the past couple of years. She’s edited a lot of books, some I know you’ve heard of. I told her what had happened. “I don’t know what to do. Maybe in this last edit, I took out all the good bits. I’m afraid to send it out to the rest of my agent list. Can I hire you to take a look?”
She’s very busy and it took almost six months to get on her calendar, but this week she got back to me with a verdict: it’s solid, a vast improvement from the excerpt she’d seen last year. Of course there’s still work to be done, but it’s not looking like a major overhaul, just some tweaking. Thank God for that. To be honest, I’m not sure I had the energy to take it completely apart again.
This does beg the question as to why those two agents passed on the book. Well, the Beatles got rejected by over thirty record companies, and even after they had a huge hit in England, the US side of EMI, Capitol, refused to release the record because they didn’t think Americans would like the Beatles. I wonder where that guy is now?
Harry Potter was also rejected everywhere and even after J.K. got a deal, the first run was limited because her publisher didn’t think it would sell much.
I’ve come to the conclusion that nobody really has any idea about this stuff. Ultimately, you’ve got to believe in your work. If you don’t, nobody else will. You also have to hang in there. This process is excruciatingly slow. It’s been a good week, but I’m still a long ways from getting this thing published.
On the CD front -- Sloan Wainwright and Penny Nichols are coming tomorrow to my home studio to do harmonies. I’ll tell you more about that next week. Also, Rachel, who will be doing the keyboards, sent an email from the Peter Gabriel tour. They’re in the states now, after two months in Europe. If you haven’t seen the Gabriel show, check it out, it’s amazing.
And finally, still no word from the Squaw Valley Writers Community; I’d really like to attend that conference. I got rejected last year. I wrote a lot since then and there’s no doubt my writing has improved, but with these things, you just never know. Well, my fingers are crossed and I’ll try not to be too disappointed if I don’t get in, I’ve got a novel to tweak.
rsw
Year Six - Week 3 – June 16, 2003
Last week I was waiting to hear back from the Squaw Valley Community of Writers and over the weekend I received news that they had wait-listed me. I’m not sure you can use ‘wait-list’ as a verb, but it feels right, so there it is.
I’m the understudy hoping the lead gets sick so that I can have a chance to prove myself. Or perhaps I’m the twelfth man on a basketball team, sitting at the end of the bench in my sweats, waiting patiently for the coach to call my name. Either way, I won’t be going unless someone else opts out. Of course I want to go, but as a replacement, it won’t be nearly as satisfying as getting accepted outright. And yet, the capricious nature of the process should allay the doubts I have about my writing. My stuff was good enough to get serious consideration; that should be sufficient, but it isn’t.
My heart still aches – all that writing, all that work, and it still isn’t good enough. And yet what does that mean – good enough? In regards to Squaw, it means, getting in. But that’s all it means.
I have a finite amount of energy each day, and to waste even a single drop on the worry of why I didn’t get through the Squaw screening could put my entire writing career in jeopardy. I know that sounds dramatic, but think about an Olympic Skier – fractions of a second separate a gold-medal from defeat. And in baseball, the difference between a pitcher striking out a batter or having the ball blasted out of the ball park is slight indeed. Inches, seconds, a quark. In the twenty-first century, the margin of difference between success and failure is getting smaller.
My time and energy is as valuable as a banker’s single basis point – one-one hundredth of a percent. In isolation, the amount is insignificant, like ten minutes. Who doesn’t fritter away ten minutes each day? But a one-one hundredth of a percent commission still equals ten thousand bucks on a million-dollar deal. And ten minutes a day wasted over a lifetime is a half-a-year lost. So instead of sitting around with a long face, I’m writing this piece for the web-site. And I feel better for it, but if I don’t get in, I’ll miss out on the chance to improve my writing. And that sucks.
Sure, I’m making a lot of progress. I’ve got a handful of decent stories under my belt; and a novel with some potential. But often, when disappointment strikes, I think of the last few books I’ve read and I compare my work to them. It’s a self-defeating exercise, and of course, that’s the point. Last month it was ‘Cold Mountain’ and Updike’s entire ‘Rabbit’ series – and in that dark alley of despair, I wonder how I’ve deluded myself into believing my work will ever compare favorably to these wonderful stories. It’s a jaunt down a dead-end. Comparing Beethoven to Mozart is a waste of time, and trying to compare my work to any piece of published literature is only going to make me feel like a loser.
A reporter once asked Bruce Springsteen what he would be doing now, if he hadn’t signed that contract with Columbia Records. He laughed and said, “I’d be playing some salty club down on the Jersey coast. Cut me and you’ll see I bleed rock and roll.”
Yes, I want to get published, and it would be nice if I could eke out a living writing, but regardless, it’s not about becoming Hemingway or Fitzgerald, it’s about me living my life and making the most of what talent I’ve been given. I thought the Squaw experience would make an excellent stop along that journey, but if it’s not meant to be, then I’ll be somewhere else that week with eyes wide open and pen in hand.
rsw
Year 6 -- Week 4 -- June 22, 2003
This week I begin yet another revision of my novel. It’s been a long haul, but this time I have the guidance of an experienced editor. Her notes indicate that what’s required is not nearly as significant as I had feared. Still, it’s another rewrite and doubt hovers nearby waiting for my courage to falter.
The manuscript arrived yesterday. Also, in the mailbox was the new issue of Poets & Writers . It has Suzan-Lori Parks on the cover. I met S-L three years ago at a Jimmie Dale Gilmore songwriting workshop. She was a student, just like me. Well, not exactly.
It isn’t often I get to meet someone that earns a living writing, so I was keen to hear what she had to say. I was surprised to learn that even with the success she had back then, writing was still hard, and the fear and doubt never really go away. S-L struck me as determined, focused and completely committed to her writing. Her success is no accident. At the time of the workshop, she was also re-reading Shakespeare. Since then, she’s won the Pulitzer Prize and a MacArthur Genius Award; and last month, she released her first novel.
It’s great to see S-L’s work finally get the wide-spread recognition it deserves.
But now I must sit down at the computer and begin this revision. Perhaps it was just coincidence that the magazine arrived with my manuscript, maybe not. Either way, the latest issue of Poets & Writers now sits beside my computer so that S-L’s smiling face can look down upon me.
I hear her say, “Don’t worry. You can do this.”
And she's right, I can.
rsw
Year Six - Week 5 – June 30, 2003
It’s been cold and rainy forever here in the Northeast, but Ra, the Egyptian Sun God, must have heard our complaints. In an instant the weather transformed into the dog days of summer. I moaned for months about the lousy spring, so I can’t gripe now. Fortunately, I bought an air conditioner and was able to start the novel rewrite in cool comfort.
Going back to a story I hadn’t looked at in six months was like visiting old friends. There were so many versions floating around in my memory, I’d forgotten what was in, what was out, and what was added. My plan was to read it start to finish, then dig in. But it was hard not to stop along the way to make notes. I held off as long as I could. At first it was just a few words in the margin. Then a few line edits, a crossed out paragraph or two, and by the halfway point, I had stopped reading entirely and had started rewriting entire sections.
Even on my most polished work, I find things to change. I’ve talked to many authors and songwriters about this and there seems to be two camps on the subject – those that never alter a single word upon completion, and those that will tinker for ad infinitum. I’m afraid that I fall into the latter category. It’s a disease and I need help. And that's why I limit this journal to one writing session.
Jimmy Webb, the songwriter, said he wanted to rewrite ‘Wichita Lineman,’ a classic song of the sixties that sold millions. That song is part of the cultural fabric that formed the sixties. If he changed it, the time/space continuum would be disturbed. Think about that the next time you declare a piece finished.
I’m introducing a new section to the weekly journal – The Rejection Scorecard.
It’s an essential part of the writing process, sending out work. But many writers find it the toughest part, and most hate doing it. Writers want to spend as much time as possible writing, but if you don’t make room for sending stuff out, you’re in trouble, because no one is going to just show up on your doorstep and ask to publish your stories.
But it’s so damn time consuming. There are applications to complete, checks to write, postage to buy. The on-line submission can simplify things, but it comes with its own quirks. Some on-line submissions require that you paste the story into an HTML box. When you do this, you lose all the formatting. Great, huh? If you know HTML code you can put bold and Italics back in, yeah, right. Actually it’s not that hard, but it’s still a pain in the ass. You also have to double return between paragraphs, or else all the text condenses upon itself. If I could only double-space the paragraph and quadruple space between them, I'd have that licked, but I can't.
Did anyone follow that? No matter, you’ll get the picture once you’ve pasted a story into one of these stupid boxes.
Chris Offutt, the Kentucky writer who now lives in Iowa, once said, “You need to get over a hundred rejections before anything starts to happen. So embrace each one that comes in because you are one step closer to getting published.”
That means I am two steps closer this week. I failed to get recognized in the latest Glimmer Train Contest and the Antietam Review passed on a story, although they did write on the form rejection note – try us again.
So for the year, here’s what the short story scoreboard looks like…
This Week
Stories Submitted: 2
Stories Rejected: 2
Year To Date
Stories Submitted: 66
Stories Rejected: 49
Stories Still Out: 17
Still got a ways to go so I better get cracking. Until next week...
rsw
Year Six - Week 6 – July 6, 2003
It’s the summer party season and I’ve been to three in the last ten days. For me, that’s a lot of socializing. In the old days, I was out almost every night, pressing the flesh and doing deals. Now I mostly sit at the computer and write.
Since leaving the corporate world, I’ve dreaded going to these gatherings because I didn’t know how to answer the inevitable question – and so what do you do? I never felt comfortable saying I was a writer, even though twelve years ago I had published a business book that sold over 10,000 copies. I’d also written several Harvard Business School cases, some that are still taught in class, but fiction is a different animal.
I decided to wait until I was published before making such a declaration. Wasn’t that the confirmation required before laying claim to the title? You can’t say you’re a lawyer without passing the bar. A doctor needs that residency. Surely, I needed something published.
Or did I?
This week I discovered that I didn’t and here’s why:
I’ve written for five years full-time and lots people in town are now aware of this. I’m sure many think I’m nuts, some have even foisted the cards of psychiatrists upon me, but the fact that I’ve kept at it has created the impression that I must be pretty good at it, otherwise, why would I keep at it? Some of course, think I’m one of those Wall Street Wizards that made a ton of money during the bubble -- if only that were true. Actually, it’s a good thing it isn’t, because writing is hard work. If I had a truckload of cash, each time I got stuck on a phrase, or got rejected from a magazine, I’d be off to some resort to lick my wounds instead of buckling down to do another rewrite.
The web site has also boosted my morale and self-image. I placed a URL Link to the site in all of my e-mail correspondence. I get lots of hits this way. The site makes the people believe that I’m for real, that I take writing seriously, that I’m committed. But most important, it shows that I write, and isn’t that the essential ingredient required of anyone claiming to be a writer?
So this week I didn’t hesitate to tell people what I do each day. Of course there’s the follow up – is there anything you’ve written that I would know? I simply refer them to my web site. That seems to leave them suitably impressed and if they conclude at the end of the visit that I’m not a real writer, screw ‘em, they won’t like my work anyway.
On the rejection front -- I sent two manuscripts out, none came back rejected. Before you jump to the conclusion that this is a good thing, I refer you to last week’s Offutt quote –
- you need at least one hundred rejections before anything starts to happen –
So getting nothing rejected means I made no progress this week.
The scoreboard looks like this:
This Week
Stories Submitted: 2
Stories Rejected: 0
Year To Date
Stories Submitted: 68
Stories Rejected: 49
Stories Still Out: 19
rsw
PS. And for those that recall that I was wait listed at Squaw – this week they asked me to join in on the fun. Hooray!
Year Six - Week 7 – July 14, 2003
The novel rewrite was going smoothly until I hit the last third of the story. Then I came to the dreaded question: what happens next? It was inevitable. Up until that point, it had been too easy, almost effortless, but now I’m stuck and don’t know what to do.
I took a break, a few in fact, then skipped a day, but still no ideas came. Then I decided to skirt the issue, tackle the problem from a different direction. That got me going for about twenty pages. For a moment I thought I had it, but all roads led to that one critical plot turn -- the equivalent of writing in circles.
I’ve read lots of books and heard numerous authors speak about this problem. There are as many views on the subject as there are varieties of apples. Some say you must sketch every last detail out before writing a word. Others suggest you develop characters to the point that they can figure it out for themselves. The outline authors dismiss this approach as poppycock. Character authors think compulsive outlining should be chemically treated.
So who has this right?
Beats me. I think a writer has to find what works for them, and just go with it until it stops working; then try something else. But the emerging writer is confronted with a unique challenge. Without a track record, trusting the gut is dodgy. What if it’s wrong?
I guess I straddle the fence. I know my characters well, but I also sketch out key events. How these character get to those points, however, is another matter. Often, I set them in motion and try to keep out of the way. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. No matter what, the one thing I know for sure is that it will require a lot of rewriting, because ultimately, the answer will be found in the process.
And yet, this time around, things are different. I know the story is almost there and this has added pressure. It’s like trying to win set point in tennis. I tried the outline. I tried the character approach. I’ve even taken walks, played squash, lifted weights and gone for several long bike rides. I still don’t know what happens next in my novel, but I have dropped a few pounds. Who knows? If I don’t find the answer soon, maybe I’ll write a diet book instead.
The Rejection Scoreboard
Another week has come without a rejection. It must be summer and many editors are at the beach. I did submit one story this week, so the scoreboard looks like this:
The scoreboard looks like this:
This Week
Stories Submitted: 1
Stories Rejected: 0
Year To Date
Stories Submitted: 69
Stories Rejected: 49
Stories Still Out: 20
rsw
Several times during my trip I was reminded of the George Bernard Shaw quote: England and America are divided by a common language -- I experienced this phenomenon often despite the fact that both of my parents were Londoners and I worked for ten years in a British company. I also lived there for three. One time I asked the chairman of HMV Records to put his John Hancock on a memo. He looked askance. “My what?” When I explained its derivation, he dismissed me with a wave of his hand. I was the only American in the UK company and I often slammed head on into this language barrier.
It took me awhile to figure out that students study maths, one reads the sport page and IBM have released results. But did I have to live there to pick up these nuances? Hemingway certainly knew first hand about his settings, but Arthur Golden didn’t do Geisha in drag, did he? Must I write about what I know?
I spent a few days with my Nana. She looks great for 93 and manages fine in her own flat, but she does get day support from the NHS. She lives near the mouth of the river Thames and we visited Leigh on Sea, a place known for its cockles. One day, my cousin came down to visit. He drives a lorry and speaks with a Cockney accent. Cockneys come from East London. For those of you with access to BBC America, that’s where they film the TV programme Eastenders. He lives on a council estate and goes out with a bird from Barking who’s a bit of a slapper. He also works with a geezer named Baggy and a bloke called Nigel. On Friday nights they all play snooker and have a bit of a piss up.
So how much time do you need to spend in a country to get the lingo?
Text messaging is big in the UK. They send jokes the way we forward emails. I delete all jokes because if I took the time to read all the ones I received, I’d never get any work done. In England, the cell phone rings when you get a text message, they even get junk text. Yuk.
Here are a few other UK tidbits I picked up. Everyone hates Tony Blair. Don’t even mention Bush. Feeder, The Darkness and Black Rebel Motor Cycle Club are the hot Brit Pop bands. David Beckham now plays for Real Madrid, but he still makes the UK tabloid headlines. It cost sixty bucks to fill up my rental car with petrol, but you can still drive ninety on the motorway. But beware, when there’s construction, cameras capture the license number of speeders and a week later, the ticket arrives in the post. Property values have skyrocketed in the south of England and interest rates are low, but few mortgages are fixed. The new Martin Amis book is generating a lot of controversy.
If one should write what one knows, then perhaps my next novel will contain a handful of UK characters and take place in a Norman castle somewhere in the Peak District. Maybe not. I don’t totally buy into this precept, but clearly, one’s writing must be convincing. And yet that’s a lot different from being factually correct. Regardless of where my next story takes place, I must know enough about it to write with authority, and of course, I won’t assume that everyone knows John Hancock.
Year Six - Week 13 – August 27, 2003
Although the Northeast electric grid continues to flicker, there’s no shortage of energy on my part to complete the novel. But what does complete mean? Will there ever be a time when I won’t pick up a page and be tempted to change a word? At Squaw I heard one of the speakers say stories are never finished, just abandoned. But even if that’s true, you still have to make the decision to let go. How will I know when it’s time?
Last month I had three readers take a look at the latest version. They all gave it rave reviews. I should mention that five years ago when I had lots of readers, anyone that only praised the work was eliminated from future readings. I gravitated to the tough reviewers. My star reader was a guy who said --perhaps you were a bit hasty giving up that day job.
I figured that once I wrote a version that he liked, then I’d be on to something. But a funny thing happened over the five plus years of writing, a kinship developed with my harshest critics. My struggle became their struggle. It was an odd connection, much like the kidnapper to a hostage. I could no longer trust these readers, they were tainted, compromised, they’d seen too many versions, they knew too much, they could no longer be objective.
It all comes down to me not wanting to get my hopes up, only to hear once more that my work will be better represented somewhere else. As long as I keep writing, I won’t have to face judgment day. And so I continue to tinker.
This latest version clocks in just over one hundred thousand words, but I’ve written at least a million to find this sequence of a hundred grand. I’ve changed the POV three times, and we’re not talking just a few chapters, I’m talking the entire manuscript.
I’ve also ping-ponged between past and present tense more times than I care to admit. One version had alternating tenses and POV (it read worse than it sounds). Often I found myself changing ‘Bruce stood’ to ‘Bruce was standing’ and then back to ‘stood.’ When I started to mess with the back-story, the domino effect was catastrophic. I gave up trying to explain why the book wasn’t done. The looks of pity were no consolation.
One gem I picked up at the Squaw Valley Writers Conference a few weeks back was the fact that novels are never written -- they are rewritten. Every author I spoke with said the same thing. This is simply the process required to get at the story. So maybe I’m right on schedule -- five years and three months and still counting…
Year Six - Week 11 – August 17, 2003
It was a lot harder than I thought to sit down and capture the essence of last week’s conference at Squaw Valley. It was my first time and I had no idea what to expect. I didn’t know that Amy Tan had gotten discovered at Squaw, as had countless other participants. Perhaps the next Tan got discovered this week. I certainly read some stories that were worth considering.
For me, the conference was about getting momentum. I came away energized and was back at my desk Sunday morning, writing. What more could I ask for? The same could not be said for the handful of washouts. I wonder what they are doing this week? Tales of dramatic confrontations, harsh words, and angry exits rippled through the conference. By Friday, these events surely had expanded well beyond the truth. All that was missing was Chekhov’s rifle.
In my group, a guy left the first day. He had disagreed with everything said about his piece, including the instructor’s insights. I thought we’d been too kind, often giving him the benefit of the doubt for vague description and awkward prose. But it was our first critique. We were just getting to know one another. I didn’t even notice the guy was gone until after the second session. One person said, “Well, if he can’t hack it, that’s his tough luck.”
There’s no doubt a writer needs a suit of armor to survive rejection, but if I’d known the guy had actually fallen off his steed, I’d have extended a hand to help him back up. He’s not competition. There’s plenty of room for all of us. Anyone willing to put in the work can get published, but all too often, a writer gives up well short of the finish line, and blames everyone but themselves for the defeat.
One former participant read from a book that took her ten years to finish. TEN YEARS. What kept her going? I’ll have whatever she’s drinking.
I had a great time last week and learned so much. The event was well run, punctual, and never disappointed. Curiously, I noticed that the participant’s backgrounds could be slotted into four categories (don’t ask, it’s a habit I’m trying to break). The groups were:
- Journalists
- Recently minted MFAs
- Established creative writing teachers
- Odd-balls like me (e.g.: fighter pilot, lawyer, actress, executive)
This is what I heard said about these groups -- Journalists are too newsy, MFA’s have no heart, writing teachers are boring, odd-balls can’t write. We are all familiar with these stereotypes, and yet, for the most part, we buy into them because of the underlying truth. But if you were to create a composite from the four groups, you might just end up with the perfect writer -- if it were only that easy. And yet, Squaw provided the opportunity for us to learn from one another, to give each the chance to develop the skills we lacked through interaction. In many ways, their design reflects this paradigm.
But we had to stay open for the opportunity. If you hit most of the events, you collected a wealth of information and this week you might be well on the way to addressing those areas most in need of improvement. Yes, the daily workshop was a big chunk of the experience, but the panels were also insightful and varied. And the four o’clock open workshop was another excellent way to learn.
The first open workshop was packed. But once participants realized the odds of reading were low, many didn’t return. That was their loss. The benefit was in the groups, not in the reading. You got to meet people from other workshops. And a lot was learned through the off-the-cuff discussions. The process of analysis was as important as the analysis itself.
As it happens, my number came up and I read. I was more nervous reading my piece for twenty people, than I was Friday night, singing in front of the entire conference. It must be the guitar, that physical presence of something solid between me and an audience.
I read the first two pages of a twenty-five-page short story, then stepped into the hallway with the instructor. She gave me a few ideas on how I might improve it, but for the most part, she thought it was a solid, clear opening. While we were in the hall, the groups discussed the work. When we returned, they rendered their decision. Half enjoyed the reading, the other half thought it sucked. I took notes, but for some reason, only wrote down the negative comments:
Too Conventional – Felt Stale – Striving for Effect – Overdone – Read it Before – Confusing – Inconsistent Language
Why did I only record the negative ones? It must have something to do with a writer’s filtering mechanism. It’s set to accentuate the bad. One day I’ll have to figure out how to adjust those settings.
They say wait several weeks before making changes to a work-shopped manuscript. I tried not to take the comments personally and to stay open to the feedback – it’s harder than you think. There’s no right or wrong in writing, all rules can be broken, but reality is perception. If they didn’t like it, I can’t explain why they got it wrong. The words must speak for themselves. On the other hand, you can’t please everyone, and if you try, you’ll end up with milquetoast. I’ll wait a few weeks before considering changes.
Business also got done at Squaw. There were agents and editors, publishers and authors. Every businessperson said just note in the cover letter that you’d attended Squaw and your submission would be rescued from the slush pile. What more could you ask for? I figured that the schmooze could only get you so far, and that if you couldn’t deliver with the written word, what good was it anyway? That took the pressure off.
I didn’t feel compelled to wait in line after the editor and agent panels to press the flesh. I didn’t need to follow Rob Spillman of Tin House into the bathroom to shove a story into his hand.
The Hall’s have established a solid conference track record. This is their thirty-fourth year. The industry can’t afford to ignore Squaw writers. That doesn’t mean we’re all ready to be published. But it does mean, if you’re open to feedback and willing to put in the work, the odds are, you will produce something that can.
Of course I wanted to be noticed this week, but more important, I wanted to get a feel for what type of people these agents, editors and publishers were. What authors did they respect? What future did they see for books? Not everyone would be a fit. They must sell me on them as much as I must sell them on me. Maybe that’s being arrogant, but from my experience in the music business, too many artists rush into the first contract that comes their way. Many don’t bother to read what they sign and they pay for that naiveté.
I also came to Squaw in hopes of finding a support group. To seek out a collection of dedicated writers who want to share work, celebrate each other’s success, and provide a shoulder to cry on when things nose dive. I made a lot of friends here, but time will reveal who, if anyone shares a similar desire.
There were five of us in the oversized SUV that took us back to Reno Airport. We talked like old friends even though none of us had spoken to one another during the week. We gossiped like neighbors. Someone mentioned one of the blow-ups that took place in the workshops.
“I heard about that,” the woman in the third row said.
The guy in the front passenger seat turned around. “That was me.” He went on to explain his side of the story. I don’t recall the details, they aren’t important, but I do remember the frustration in his voice and the anger.
The conversation came to an abrupt halt.
Several miles passed before the conversation got going again. Someone brought up other conferences. We bantered back and forth. The guy in front, sat with his eyes closed.
One woman mentioned Swanny something in Tennessee. Another mentioned Breadloaf (that’s probably not the correct name). “What’s Breadloaf?” I asked the group.
The front-seat guy turned around and said, “You don’t know about the Breadloaf Conference?”
“You say that like I should.”
“Well, if you want to have a career in writing.”
The conversation deteriorated from there and soon we were silent again. I sat with my head down thinking I should know more about all this business stuff. I mean, I was a Harvard Business School grad for crying out loud. But it wasn’t until I burned my creative business plan two years ago, that the stories took a turn for the better. Since then, I’d made a conscious effort to focus on the writing. But that front-seat guy made me think maybe I should have been more aggressive. Why hadn’t I brought manuscripts to put in people’s hands?
At the airport the drudgery of standing in line, taking my shoes off, and being frisked with an electronic prod, wore me down. The warm glow of Squaw faded. At the gate, another line formed and I got in it. The long journey back to New York had begun. Then I realized the person in front of me was one of the big publishing honchos from the conference. At some point he realized I was one of the participants. We said hello and he mentioned my song from the show Friday night. On the layover in Chicago, we had a drink. We too talked like old friends, and the hour passed so quickly, it wasn’t until we heard our names over the loudspeaker that we realized we were late. We ran to the gate like OJ Simpson used to do in that commercial long ago.
I had no intention of pushing my work, despite front-seat guy’s needling. It had been a long week and I figured the last thing this person needed was another pitch. But during the course of the conversation, he asked what I was working on. I spoke of my five plus years of struggle, my full-time commitment to writing and of course my novel. He liked what I said and wanted to see the book.
When I got home I wanted to call that front-seat guy and say, “So and So wants to see my manuscript, so fuck off.”
But why bother? The name of the game is writing. Nothing else matters. Front-seat guy is probably still so angry, he can’t write a word. He only has one person to blame. If he really wants a career in writing, he should chill-out and write the story about why he keeps pissing people off. But he won’t, so I will.
Many thanks to all of the Halls, the instructors and to the participants. Squaw Valley is truly an oasis for writers. For those reading this that didn’t attend the conference. You can find out more at www.SquawValleyWriters.org
RSW
PS. If you want to judge for yourself the piece I read in the openwork shop, the link is at the top of this page, to the right – The Jersey Cowboy. In class, I read roughly the first half of what’s posted. Don’t be bashful, email your comments. Thanks!
Year Six - Week 10 – August 10, 2003
Just got back from the Squaw Valley Writers Community conference. Wow! Look for the journal entry by the end of the week.
One note: The drive home from La Guardia was in monsoon conditions. Apparently, it rained all week. My deck plants look drunk, there's a slippery film on the sidewalk and thousands of ants now inhabit my mail box (I have no idea why -- there was no food in it).
I was forced to go through the week's mail at three AM. Little ants got tangled in the hair on my arms. But in that pile of bills, commercial ciruclars and insects, was a package from the guy I'd gone to Springsteen with two weeks ago. We'd talked that night of all the shows we'd seen over the years and he'd dug up a bootleg of my all-time favorite Springsteen show -- the December 31, 1975 concert at the Tower Theater.
And now it was in my hands (sprinkled with a few ants).
I couldn't believe it. From the opening note of 'Night', it was as if I was back there and Marie Brennan, my high school sweetheart, was sitting next to me.
What a gift.
More on Squaw soon...
Year Six - Week 9 – July 28, 2003
I finished the rewrite of the novel on Saturday, but the real news of the week was Bruce Springsteen at Giants Stadium on the Monday, and two days later, old-timer's night at the Jimmie Dale Gilmore annual Hudson Valley retreat. Here’s why:
I’ve seen Bruce about thirty times over the last thirty years, and although I’ve never met the man, he’s very much a part of my life. I was in ninth grade when ‘Greetings from Asbury Park’ came out. I smooched under that same boardwalk he sang about and I often stood when others sat. When ‘The River’ came out in 1980, I was in San Diego, and a friend knew Bruce’s guitar tech. We got seats right up front.
In 1992, Bruce released two albums at once. Many felt the new band wasn’t worthy and maybe they were right, but I was working with HMV then, and we played a big part in launching those two records. I put together a midnight extravaganza at the flagship Manhattan superstore and generated a lot of press. At the time, such promotions weren’t as common as they are now and friends from around the world called to say they saw me interviewed on CNN.
And then there was Monday night at Giants Stadium. I’m not a big fan of the big outdoor venue, but during ‘Mary’s Place,’ the skies dumped an ocean of rain. The lights came on and lit up the stadium as if a football game was on. Under that bright glare you could see sheets of water falling fast on fifty-five thousand heads. But the band kept playing and Bruce stepped out from underneath the canopy and sang through the torrential downpour. We surrendered ourselves to the Ministry of Springsteen and experienced a collective rock and roll baptism.
On Wednesday, I was at the Omega Institute to see Jimmie Dale Gilmore. Jimmie is best known for being in the Flatlanders, but he might say his most fulfilling work is his teaching.
Jimmie runs a week long workshop at Omega every summer. ‘Old Timers' is the day when a handful of alumni show up to play music with Jimmie and this year’s class of Gilmore apostles, many of whom are repeat offenders. I myself have done ‘Jimmie,’ as it’s coined by graduates, four times. An added bonus is getting to spend time with Jimmie’s wife, Janet.
My first ‘Jimmie’ experience was only three weeks after getting laid off. I had a vague notion of wanting to write a book and make an album, but also to have more control over my life. I left the corporate world and stepped right into the workshop and things have never been the same. I learned a lot that week, but most surprising was that a lot of it had little to do with songwriting. Some complained to Jimmie about that, but for those who stayed the course, it was worth it. Everyone took away something different. For me, it was his discussion about motivation. Jimmie asked questions like -- Why did we write songs? Why were we at the workshop?
He said there was no right or wrong answer, but by understanding the motivation behind the action you could gain a greater sense of how to proceed. Money, fame, power, revenge, love, fun, desire, challenge – these were the words that came to mind when I tried to answer Jimmie’s questions. It took three years to edit and rearrange the order of that list, but once I sorted those motivational priorities, the quality of my art improved.
A wonderful by product of the ‘Jimmie’ experience is the community that blossomed. You come to the workshop as one of twenty or so strangers, you leave as close friends. Of course many drift off, but just as many stick around, and over the years someone that hasn’t been heard from pops up, and they are welcomed with open arms. On Wednesday, I was with family.
When I hear a Springsteen song on the radio, it takes me back to the year it came out. His music is my personalized time machine. When I hear Jimmie Dale sing, a warm feeling overcomes me. I’m back with the gang sharing songs, laughing. It’s as if I’m in a roomful of good friends, just like I was on Wednesday. Bruce and Jimmie in one week -- life gets no better.
rsw
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The Rejection Scoreboard
Another rejection but it doesn't seem to sting as much this week, so the scoreboard looks like this:
This Week
Stories Submitted: 0
Stories Rejected: 1
Year To Date
Stories Submitted: 70
Stories Rejected: 52
Stories Still Out: 18
rsw
Year Six - Week 17 – September 29, 2003
When you get tossed out of the saddle, they say you’ve got to get right back up on the horse, but when you get knocked out of your writing routine, sitting at the computer doesn’t necessarily get words back on the screen, or at least words that will do you any good.
Life is messy and there’s no way to avoid the occasional step in a pile of shit. Of course it’s those moments when caught with crap on our shoes, that one day becomes a great story, but the journey to complete that tale starts with a single word. And yet, taking that first step when you believe that there’s nothing worth a damn inside of you can be impossible.
I know I’ve lost the groove. I have no focus or confidence, I can’t even remember what I was doing two weeks ago. My characters are in limbo. They are lost in a time warp, frozen in a dimension somewhere inside my head. And yet somehow, I’ve got to find a way to unlock this state of mind. They need me.
Booze and drugs are one answer. A muse might work. The kiss from the lips of another woman couldn’t hurt either. But maybe just getting out of the house is what I need. Reaching out to family and friends has been helpful, but I’m tired of having to repeat the sordid details of this break-up. I’m thinking about making a tape and putting it on the answer machine.
And I’ve just come to the realization that all of my friends are married – ALL OF THEM. What happened to my single friends? I don’t have any. Now I know why -- who wants to hang out with a couple when you’re single?
But I digress. It’s the writing I want to get back to. I have characters in need of assistance, direction, breath; but I’m of no use to them at the moment.
There are lots of books on the subject of how to rekindle the spark. Annie Lamont’s ‘Bird by Bird’ and Julia Cameron’s ‘The Artist’s Way’ are both on my shelf, but the last thing I need this week is to read about technique or do writing exercises.
I did return from Squaw Valley with a load of books. All have sat in the dinning room patiently for over a month. So this week, I decided to make a dent in that pile. I read Jim Houston’s ‘Continental Drift,’ and then a short story collection by Maile Meloy. Now I’m reading Alice Sebold’s ‘The Lovely Bones.’
These books saved me. They got me out of my head. While I read, I didn’t think about divorce proceedings or writer’s block.
I did manage to funnel thoughts into my journal. Actually, the act was more akin to the way my digital camera dumps its photos into the PC. I simply plugged into the USB connector and copied my thoughts directly into the word processing program.
And I’m sleeping this week, sort of. Dreams full of scattered images crammed with confusion and angst toy with me. On Tuesday, I woke in the middle of the night and couldn’t get back to sleep. I went out on the deck and watched Mars disappear into the dawn.
Today, I took batting practice for the first time, or at least the writer’s equivalent. I returned to object writing in hopes of finding my groove. It’s simple. You find an object in the room, it doesn’t matter what, and just free write. Start with a vase, a coffee cup, the pencil sharpener. Begin with the object and keep going no matter where it leads for at least five minutes. Don’t stop. The only rule is to make sure to draw upon all of the senses – sight, smell, sound, taste and touch.
From the sharpener, I went to pencils, and then to those silly tests we took in elementary school where a number 2 was always required. And there was Rosemary Driscol, the annoying girl that sat next to me in second grade. I smelled the paste in my desk drawer, the stuff Mom made out of flour. And hadn’t Rosemary stolen my safety scissors? I hear that high pitched whine, she’s denying that she has them. She slaps my face, it stings, and her hand is curiously damp and cool. I want my scissors back even though they don’t cut worth a damn…
You don’t edit object writing. But at some point, you do go back over the work, looking for ideas, a line, a word or two, anything that might be get the juices going. I used to do a lot of this. I don’t know why I stopped.
This web journal has also helped. It’s the only thing I’ve written in weeks. I force myself to write it no matter what. And so here it is, warts and all.
rsw
Edit
Delete
Year Six - Week 16 – September 20, 2003
I started this weekly journal to chronicle the joy and pain of the writing life, but to hold anyone’s interest beyond my mom, I knew it had to be honest, real, and uncensored. And so this week I must write about the sudden demise of my marriage. Apparently, it was a deep, slow rot from within. And yet, only days before its fall, the damage was barely visible to me. Sure, it showed the normal wear and tear of any twenty-one year relationship, but I never thought it could collapse so suddenly and irrevocably.
Looking back, there were lots of signs, and I’ll have plenty of time to navel gaze on how I misread them, but for now I must focus on the future. To spin a positive out of the situation, I did tell myself to think of the story possibilities. Everyone knows that if you’re happy, you’ve got nothing to write about. But as I sit alone at the computer, I get little solace knowing that one-day a good story might arise from these ashes.
At least my head has cleared enough to write. Last week, I was a zombie. And yet, I was walking, talking and acting as if I could handle things, but deep inside my bloodshot eyes, a dark pool of disbelief, heartache, and desperation simmered, and only those who really knew me could tell.
After the devastation of a volcanic eruption, vegetation takes hold in the ash and cooled lava sooner than one might think, and as the week progressed, I too started to show renewed signs of life. And now, for the most part, I am once again a fully functional human being. I eat, I sleep, I write. The journal writing saved me. Anything that was in my head was put to paper -- all of the anger, the fear, the disbelief, the hope. The release of these thoughts brought me back to life.
I’ve got several story ideas, but now I wonder how much time should pass before I start them. I don’t have an answer yet, but I do know that whatever I write this week will certainly be different from what I’d write six months from now. And that might be a good thing, but then again, it might not. At the moment, I’m leaning against jumping too quickly into anything related to this break-up, but I’ll certainly continue to capture all of the raw, uninhibited emotion in my journal. When enough time has passed, I’ll hunt for a story. Until then, I’ve still got my novel to sort out, but more important, I’ve got an opportunity to rewrite the rest of my life, so I might as well get started on that first chapter.
